


Fissures

by Zeke Black (istia)



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV), The Quest (TV 1976)
Genre: Amnesia, Crossover, M/M, Mag7 Bingo Challenge, Old West, POV Chris Larabee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:17:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istia/pseuds/Zeke%20Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An injured Chris rediscovers the importance of family in whatever form it takes. A fill for my Mag7 Bingo square "Amnesia".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fissures

The sun was a blaze of heat, but the overhang he'd found in the cliff face got gradually more useful as the day progressed, casting an increasingly wider, heavier shadow. Eventually, he could even relax his rigidly drawn-up knees a little without his booted feet baking in the sun. Moisture dripped down the rocks at the back of the small cleft, too, and cupping his hand under it long enough netted him enough moisture to ease his thirst. He even roughly swiped water over his face a few times, and felt better without the pull of dust and blood on his skin.

When his head felt less like a red-hot spike was being driven into it, he wet a black-and-white polka-dot handkerchief he found in his pocket and washed away the worst of the blood; the swollen knot on his forehead had finally stopped bleeding, and he didn't touch that, not intending to start it up again. Blood in his eyes wouldn't help his watch over the plain below and the trail leading up here, especially with his vision wavering from the combination of the thump in his head and the air rippling like water in the heat.

It'd be bitching cold when the sun went down, but no point thinking about that right now because he couldn't do a damned thing about it. He had no way to make a fire and only his torn jacket with him, presently bunched up against the rocks behind his head as a pillow, and that was that. The night promised to be uncomfortable, but he'd make it through. After that...well. He'd see in the morning if he could stand up without toppling over or his sight dimming to black around the edges from the pain in his head. Water and shelter would do him for now. Food could wait.

He reckoned he'd just throw up anything he tried to eat right now.

He'd let his eyes drift to half-mast, feeling almost comfortable in his shaded nook--as long as he didn't move, especially his head--when activity below caught his attention. He looked down to see a man sitting atop a horse and gazing straight up at him from under a high-crowned Stetson. Narrowing his eyes in an effort to sharpen his vision, he noted a well-worn holster and gleaming pistol strapped to the man's left thigh. The horse stood rock-steady, too, a reliable mount for someone used to traveling wilderness trails. Not a casual farmer off exploring, then: not in this place, not with that gear.

Since he didn't, at the moment, know exactly how he'd been wounded and stranded here, no horse of his own in sight when he'd woken up pretty much where the man below was dismounting, he pulled his gun and closed his hand around its familiar form. It fit his hand like he'd been born with it, like it was something he'd never forget no matter what else became unrecognizable; it was heavy and solid, and oddly comforting. One of the first things he'd done when he'd come to was check the gun was fully loaded, before he'd done a brief survey of the deserted area and hauled himself up to this defensible perch. He wasn't sure how the man below had caught sight of him, sitting black-clad as he was under a shadowed overhang, but he credited the stranger with sharp eyes and wit enough to look up to spot prey.

His hand was unsteady, so he rested his wrist against his raised knee and sighted down at the man. Blinking to keep his eyes from hazing out of focus, he waited. The man below might be skilled, but he didn't have the high ground and protected position. Bitching stupid, leaving himself exposed like that.

The stranger didn't seem worried, though. He raised an arm and waved.

"Chris! Thank the Lord. Are you all right?"

 _Chris_. Was that his name? It didn't sound right; not familiar, anyway. Not familiar the way his gun had felt, sliding into his hand. A man's own name would ring a bitching bell, wouldn't it? He had no idea how he'd ended up here, but it'd be half-witted to trust what he wasn't sure of. He pressed his wrist harder against his knee to steady his hand and narrowed his eyes along the sight.

The stranger started to dismount, so Chris squeezed off a shot. He'd been intending a body shot, but jerked his hand up at the last minute, some doubt stopping him. Good to find out that while his eyes might be unreliable, his aim was true, the bullet sailing over the man's left shoulder. Chris smiled with grim satisfaction as the fellow started and his horse shied to the side. The man settled back into the saddle to calm his horse before staring up at him again.

"Chris? What the hell are you doing? It's me, Josiah!"

He would've yelled back, but his head was pounding too badly; any worse and his fucking eyes would haze out entirely. So he simply sighted again and, when the man just sat there staring up at him, put a shot into the ground that kicked up a funnel of dust a foot in front of the horse, which neighed and jerked at the rein.

"Dammit, Chris!"

The fellow got his horse under control and backed it away until he was just out of gun range.

Which was all right, for now. Relieved, he let the gun drop; the weight and kick of the revolver had set his hand trembling again, spasms running up his arm. He laid the gun on the rock beside him and massaged his fingers, keeping an eye on the fellow below between quick, regular scans of the empty land around.

 _Josiah_. That's what he'd yelled, but it wasn't any more familiar than Chris.

He tried _Chris_ on his tongue, mouthing it into the dry air. Was it his actual name or a trick? Dumb trick to try to play, he supposed, so it might really be his name. Even if it was, though, that didn't mean this Josiah might not be dangerous. Something or someone had caused that cut on his head and stranded him in this empty wilderness without a horse or canteen. Maybe he'd fallen for some trick that'd landed him in this mess in the first place, but whether he had or hadn't, he couldn't let himself be dunderheaded now. He was too damned vulnerable.

He'd crawled up here, instinct driving him to make for high ground and a spot he could defend. He trusted his instinct, even half-blind from the pounding in his head and the glare of the sun--even not fucking knowing who he was or where or why--more than a man he couldn't recognize who was sporting a gun in a worn-in holster that looked as at home on his hip as the fellow himself did on his well-trained horse.

Movement to the right caught his eye and he wiped his forehead on his sleeve to clear the sweat as he focused on another rider who came up from the west and stopped beside Josiah. They exchanged hurried words, then the newcomer looked up at Chris and waved. He was colored, features too shadowed to read from this distance under a black hat with a downturned brim.

"Chris! Are you okay?"

Dismounting and handing his reins to Josiah, the newcomer took a step forward. Chris picked up his gun and set his wrist against his knee, shifting an inch to the left to adjust his aim. The man below stopped, staring up at him.

"It's Nathan, Chris. Are you hurt? I'm gonna come up, okay? I'm gonna give my gun to Josiah."

Slowly, he pulled his gun from his holster and, holding it with his fingers well away from the trigger, turned to hand it up to Josiah. He turned back and just as cautiously took a step forward, then stopped and pulled the two sides of his yellow-and-black plaid jacket open.

Empty holster and not even a knife in a sheath. That didn't mean he was unarmed, though, or harmless; could have a knife in his boot--or a gun--or in a sheath at his back. Chris didn't let his aim waver.

"I'm a healer. I just wanna come up and check on you, okay? Josiah'll stay right here. Just me."

The fellow took a step forward; Chris put a warning shot into a rock a yard in front of him and smiled again as Nathan jumped back.

"Chris, dammit, don't you know us? We're friends!"

Now he had two of them staring up at him, and possibly plotting. Odds were getting worse--

\--and, hell, a third horse pounded up to join them. A whole fucking gang? That could explain his situation. Unless they really were as harmless as they claimed. Maybe even the friends they said they were? He wiped the sweat out of his eyes again and wished he could have a single fucking moment of clear-headedness to think. He didn't know them, but he also didn't know his _own bitching name_ , so that possibly wasn't a reliable guide.

But he should _know_ them, if they were what they said, even if he couldn't bring their names to mind. You had to know who to trust just like you could trust your gun and your horse not to let you down. His gun had slid into his hand with instant familiarity; he felt in his gut he'd know a true friend in the same instinctive way. He'd known his gun and he needed that same certainty about a man before he'd take a gamble with his life.

The third man conferred with the other two, then dismounted and took two long strides forward. Chris sighted again, trying not to let nervousness about what the other two might be doing in the background distract him from the new target. This one had dark hair and a dark mustache, a sand-colored Stetson hanging down his back.

"What the dickens happened to you, Chris? You gonna shoot me?" He flung his arms out to either side, standing just shy of the rock Chris'd shot, long legs planted apart, chest unprotected with a large red wildrag knotted around his neck like a bulls-eye.

He didn't bother answering, which would've meant lifting his head, just put another bullet into the rock, making the guy jump back from flying chips.

"Jesus, Chris, will you at least talk to us? Why the hell are you shooting at us? Do you see any of us threatening you, you crazy old war dog?"

Since the dark-mustached fellow had fallen back to stand with Josiah and Nathan, Chris let himself relax enough to slide the gun into his left hand and flex his fingers. He kept close watch on the trio below, just glancing down to load fresh bullets to replace the ones he'd spent. He wished to hell they'd just leave him alone, stop pressing him; if he could just sleep awhile, just get rid of this fucking headache....

A fourth horse came into sight on the left, out of the scrub. Dammit. He blinked his eyes clear and shot a look in that direction. Just the one, but four-to-one were fucking bad odds even at the best of times. He gripped his gun again and lifted it into position against his knee. His leg was threatening to cramp; he should've taken a moment to stretch it out, dammit. The newest arrival was as dark-haired under a bowler hat as the mustached fellow, but younger than the others by a good few years. If he was twenty, it didn't show on his fresh-looking face, at least from this distance. He threw puzzled glances up at Chris as he joined the others and they all had another confab.

Nothing felt familiar about this one anymore than the others. Chris swallowed, wishing he dared reach back to the trickle of water; willing his leg not to cramp, the tremor in his hand not to get worse. He was up the bitching creek, and he didn't want to shoot any of these men, but he didn't fucking _know_ any of them and he might not have a choice much longer.

And _fuckfuckfuck_ a fifth horse arrived, a blaze-faced black melding into the group of horses like he was right at home. They all knew each other, all right. More chewing over stuff between themselves, but not for long.

The guy on the black didn't dismount, but brought his horse a few steps out from the group. He sat even easier in the saddle than the others, seeming like one with the animal, his buckskin coat and pants marking his difference from the rest. Something about his lean body, his easy movements made Chris hesitate to fire as the black moved forward one slow step at a time. He was even with the rock and Chris was tightening his finger on the trigger when the man pushed his hat back to dangle by the stampede-strings and his long hair gleamed in the sunlight--

A scrape of boot on rock sounded behind him and Chris jerked around, bringing his gun up as a man landed on the end of the narrow ledge in a graceful, controlled jump from above.

"Hi," the man said, and smiled, showing white teeth in a tanned face with eyes blue as the sky and ripples of light hair touching his shoulders.

A surge of pain hit Chris between the eyes and he squinted involuntarily as he scrambled to his feet, blinking furiously while a jolt hit him in the belly. His gunhand dropped as if it had its own will and he _knew_ \--

"Vin?"

But Vin didn't have a red calico shirt, did he? Or wear a collar of quills and beads around his neck?

Christ, what the hell, goddamned _fool_ he was-- He lifted the gun, quick as he could, but not fast enough as a fist smashed into his jaw and pain burst in his head with blinding intensity and he got off a shot, but he was falling into black as he fired.

:::::::

He woke up lying face down over a hot, moving surface with the smell of sweaty horseflesh tickling his nose and a coarse blanket scratching his cheek. Turning his head showed the bounce of land below him and brought a rush of dizziness. He clamped his mouth shut against being sick and struggled to push himself up.

"Stop, goddamn it, let me off!"

The horse stopped.

"Chris, hold it": and he knew Buck's voice.

All right, _yes_ , he knew Buck's voice and shrugged off big hands he knew were Buck's by touch alone and shoved himself off the damned horse, staggering until he got his balance.

Chris, of course; of course he was Chris. Chris bitching Larabee. He brushed past Buck's reaching hand and swerved away from Nathan heading determinedly for him to get into a clear space, then bent and puked on a clump of sagebrush. Still bent over, hands on his knees for support and breathing heavily, he freed a hand to take the canteen Nathan offered him. He rinsed his mouth and spat, then pushed himself upright and drank several luxurious mouthfuls. Reckless with relief at being right in his head again, he splashed water on his face and sighed as warm drops rolled down his neck.

When he turned around, his eyes caught on the horse he'd been slung over and he stopped. A buckskin gelding with no saddle, just a hide blanket. A horse he didn't know, couldn't jog a single memory of ever seeing before, so maybe he wasn't quite as right in the head as he'd thought? He dropped his hand to his holster and was half-surprised to feel his revolver's bone handle slide into his grip. They didn't disarm him; he frowned, remembering holding his gun when he was punched.

Punched! Shit. He lifted his left hand and fingered his jaw, wincing as soreness flared. Somebody punched him, then put his gun back into his holster? He looked around, seeing one familiar face after another: all six of them slotting into place. Nathan closest to him, eyes large with worry; Josiah and JD on horseback holding the others' various reins; Buck close at hand looking like he wanted to kick his ass; Vin nearby, with a nod and reassuring smile when their eyes met. So everything was all right, then.

His eyes passed two people he didn't know looking for the sixth: there, behind the others, Ezra seated on his chestnut, looking distant and unreadable, the brim of his hat shadowing his face. He fixed his eyes on Ezra's damned inscrutable poker face.

"Might we hazard a guess that you've regained your memory, Chris?" Ezra's voice was cool as gun metal.

"Yeah, I reckon I have." He kept his voice even and his eyes on Ezra.

"How fortunate, since I gather that means you're unlikely to shoot any of us on sight now."

That was Ezra at his prickliest, not about to give him a nod or smile or jot of warmth. Chris shrugged away uneasiness--Ezra made for prickly company in a disturbing variety of ways--and turned to study the two strangers. One dark, one fair. The fair one he'd first thought was Vin actually had yellower hair and a more compact body than Vin's leanness. Same blue eyes and tanned face, though; and Vin's surefooted agility, he remembered.

With the friendly smile Chris recalled from just before the punch, the light-haired one stepped forward. "I am sorry about hitting you, but you are very fast with your gun. I did not think I had a chance of taking it from you before you could shoot me."

The dark-haired one--dark eyes, too, and taller than the other--came to hold his hand out to Chris. "I'm Quinton Beaudine and this is my brother, Morgan. We heard the shots and came to investigate, then Morgan thought he saw a way to get to you without anybody getting hurt."

Chris raised a hand to his jaw again and snorted, but neither of the Beaudine brothers seemed threatening and none of the boys seemed worried, so he relaxed. He wasn't ready to shake hands yet, though. Quinton dropped his hand, but peered at him and took another step closer.

"Maybe you should sit down. I'd really like to have a better look at your head."

Chris frowned. "What?"

Nathan said, "Quinton's a doctor, Chris. From San Francisco! How about if you sit in the shade and let us look at you. It looks like that head wound bled a lot. Now you're awake, we can take a few minutes before heading back to town."

His head was still pounding and he wasn't entirely steady on his feet, so he didn't mind sinking down to the ground in the shade cast by the horses clumped together and letting Nathan take the makeshift bandage off and Quinton feel around the area and peer into his eyes.

"Not quite a doctor; I left just before completing my exams when word came about my brother being found." Quinton pulled back and Chris closed his eyes, not caring enough to ask for more. Quinton, however, didn't need prompting. "Indians took him and our little sister when we were kids and heading west with our folks. They killed our folks."

"I do not think he is terribly interested in that story right now, Quinton." Morgan's voice was amused.

"Oh, right. Sorry."

Quinton and Nathan discussed how Chris was doing and asked him a few questions. Then, as he sat with his eyes closed, he felt Nathan's sure touch smoothing ointment onto the cut before wrapping a clean bandage around his head.

"You okay to ride, Chris?" Buck hovering over him, worry in his voice.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, steeling himself for the sun's glare that wasn't going to help his headache one bitching bit, then hauled himself up with the help of the stirrup on Vin's saddle. "Anyone seen my horse?"

They all shook their heads. "Might've made his way back to town," Josiah said, and Chris nodded. Nothing to be done about it.

"Take my horse, Chris. I'm the lightest, so I'll ride with, uh, Vin?" JD bounced off his horse and handed the reins to him.

He managed to get himself up into the saddle without passing out, though the world somersaulted around him sickeningly for a moment. Morgan vaulted onto the saddleless buckskin Chris'd been carried on and nudged it into a walk, apparently completely at ease with nothing under him but a blanket. Raised by Indians, right.

His eyes snapped to the side as Ezra rode up beside him. Even close up, Ezra's face was unreadable.

"I believe you'll need this. I found it decorating a cactus a little to the north." Ezra held out Chris's hat.

He took it, noting it didn't have even a smudge of dust on it. He put it on with relief and nodded to Ezra, who just looked at him for another long moment before easing his horse away as Buck and Vin closed in on either side of Chris.

The trip back to town probably wasn't as long as it seemed, but they made it home before sunset. He rode with his eyes shut a good portion of the way, trusting Buck and Vin to keep him seated and Nathan's watchful eyes to call a stop if he figured Chris was about to keel over. _Trust_ : he had that back, knowing these men, knowing he could rely on them, and he hazily thought he might actually be more relieved to have back that trust than to know his own name again.

"You remember what happened to you, Chris?"

Blinking his eyes open, he looked at JD riding close to hand on his right with Vin.

He tried to bring back the memory, but found only a dark hole. "Last thing I remember was heading up the north face looking for Johnson." They'd been after a man who'd robbed Watson's Hardware, a jittery fellow with a shaky hold on his gun who'd skedaddled out of town and probably wouldn't ever dare return, but they'd wanted to try to get Mr. Watson's money back. "When I woke up, I was on the ground with blood running down my face and my horse gone."

"D'you think he shot you?"

"I believe he just said he couldn't recall any other details, JD." Damn if Ezra couldn't strip paint from wood with his voice alone.

"Yeah. Sorry, Chris."

"I don't know if Johnson would have the nerve to shoot a man."

"Don't take much nerve to shoot from cover."

"Could've just been a rattler--"

Chris let his eyes close again and drifted in the wash of familiar voices.

"I'll come back tomorrow and have another look round." Vin raised his voice and called, "Morgan, you lived with Indians? What tribe?"

Chris heard a change in the rhythm of the hoofbeats as Morgan Beaudine fell back to ride on Vin's other side.

"Cheyenne. Quinton calls me Morgan, but I am known as Two Persons, which is the name my mother gave me."

"Two Persons." Vin's voice had a warm smile in it. "I lived with a couple of tribes a time myself, but they were Kiowa and Comanche. And Josiah here studied with a...Cherokee holy man, weren't it, Josiah?"

:::::::

After midnight; home, fed and watered, washed, newly bandaged, and in his own bitching bed in the boarding house. Chris stretched, figuring all the ways this night was better than he'd expected it to be. Even his horse had made it safely home before them; a scrape on his left foreleg, but Tiny was looking after him.

He'd gotten lucky; even the headache was reduced to just a light throbbing after a couple of mugs of Nathan's tea and a powder Quinton Beaudine had given him.

The almost-doctor from San Francisco had told him he'd feel better in the morning, and he believed it. He felt it. Quinton had stitched the wound on his head and bandaged it; he had a sure touch and gentle hands. Then he and Nathan'd lost themselves in nattering about herbs and tinctures while Josiah and Vin had accompanied Chris to the Saloon, hovering one on each side of him as though afraid he'd fall and smash on the stairs like a glass lamp.

Buck had been in the Saloon, nursing a beer and flitting around restlessly; Buck was concerned about him, but scowling, too, while Vin had steered clear of Buck for some unexplained reason. Something strange was going on there, but damned if he could figure what. Thank the blazes Josiah and JD were just themselves, not caught in some dark, mysterious mood. He'd think Buck needed to spend time with a woman, if he didn't know Buck took care of that more regularly than any other unmarried man Chris'd ever known.

Other than himself, these days.

Morgan Beaudine--Two Persons, Vin called him--had sat with them, drinking a beer and eating chili beans. He and his brother were trying to find their sister, who was still with the Cheyenne, or so they thought. If she was alive, Two Persons was certain she'd be with other survivors of the raid that'd broken and scattered their tribe.

"We heard the Army is trailing a band of Cheyenne south of Colorado that have a white woman with them. It might not be White Antelope, but we must be sure. We do not have any other leads right now. Also, the last time the Army--" Two Persons hesitated, mouth twisted and voice acquiring an edge "--freed a white woman, she was not treated well. I would like to be there if the Army finds another one."

"What'll you do if it is your sister?" JD was hanging on every word, like he was reading one of his Dime Novels.

Two Persons looked down, his hair falling forward over his face like a veil until he sighed and looked up. "Quinton wants to take her home. By that, he means San Francisco, where he thinks she will become again the little sister, Patricia, he knew. But if she is safe and does not wish to leave, I will help her stay in the home she has. She has been Cheyenne since she was six; they are the only family she remembers."

Silence fell, somber as Two Person's eyes. Chris took another puff on his cigarillo and drained his second cup of Nathan's tea, brewed on the Saloon's stove by an obliging JD. He was gathering himself to get up and head to his room for the night, not wanting to be drawn into Two Person's quiet desperation: the search for lost family, the pain of a lost world. Before he could stir himself, though, JD piped up with another question.

"Why didn't you stay with your tribe and your sister?"

Two Persons, who seemed to smile easily, looked suddenly wooden, as though he hadn't smiled in a year. "The soldiers destroyed our camp and killed many of our people. Others they captured and put in chains to take to a reservation. They put me in a cell, because of my wrong color hair." He touched a wavy strand of hair brushing his shoulder. "They kept me there until Quinton came and took me out. The survivors had fled by then. I did not see White Antelope dead, and she was not among the captives I saw, so we can only hope and search for her."

Vin had offered to go with the Beaudines the next day, take them out to the reservation to see if anyone there had heard anything; help them track the tribe the Army was looking for. They'd go by way of the mesa Chris'd been hurt on, one more sweep for any sign of Johnson. Good idea, he'd thought, get Vin out of town a few days and give Buck a chance to get rid of whatever had crawled under his skin.

Ezra had sat with them at dinner, too, snapping his cards between his hands and mostly silent. A quiet Ezra, especially one with a stony face and intent eyes, made Chris more uneasy than a moody Buck and skittish Vin together.

But he'd think on it all tomorrow, he decided, as warmth and drowsiness pulled him down.

He woke a hazy amount of time later to the creak of the door to his room opening. He'd locked that damned door; he was sure of it. He was reaching for his gun, feeling the burn of his abused muscles as he stretched out his arm, when he saw the silhouette in the light from the hallway, the upturned brim of the neat hat, and relaxed. Ezra didn't need a key to get into any room he wanted; though he had one for this door, anyway.

Ezra shut the door and tossed his hat onto a chair. He stood over the bed for a moment, the moonlight through the east window casting a looming giant shadow that touched the ceiling behind him. Then Ezra sat on the side of the bed and leaned over him, eyes aglitter in his shadowed face. When Ezra spoke, whiskey-ripe breath puffed warm against Chris's cheek.

"I trust you're feeling more like yourself now, Chris?"

"Yeah." He drew the word out, trying to gauge Ezra's mood. "I reckon so."

"Excellent."

Ezra stroked the back of a finger down Chris's jaw to his chin and up to his lips. Chris drew the tip into his mouth, but got to suck it only a moment before Ezra pulled it away. The wet finger trailed damply down Chris's throat to the base, where Ezra splayed his hand against Chris's chest. Ezra leaned closer, warm body pressing down on him, to whisper in his ear.

"You do realize that Buck is quite annoyed with you, don't you?"

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yes. You didn't recognize him. He can't seem to comprehend how you could fail to recognize him after all the years you've known each other."

"Shoot, I didn't remember my own name."

"Ah, but that's not the point, is it?"

Ezra shifted, moving so he was lying on the bed close against Chris's side, sliding his hand down to press over Chris's heart. Chris felt a hardness against his thigh, but he was pretty sure it was Ezra's gun in its holster sticking into him.

"So what's the point?"

"The point, my dear Chris, is that you didn't recognize Buck--or Josiah, Nathan, or JD, as it happens, though those are incidental--because the _point_ is you did recognize Vin."

"I ain't sure I'd say--"

"Vin is the only one you didn't shoot at immediately. Just seeing Vin made you hesitate. And when this Two Persons leaped down behind you, you _lowered your gun_. You did that because, for a moment, you thought he was Vin. You said Vin's name."

Chris had the feeling he was still missing the point, and the ache in his head was notching up, but he said, "I'd seen the others first, before Vin came. Maybe if Buck'd rode up after the rest, instead of Vin, it'd be Buck that made me remember."

Ezra snorted. "You can spin that fanciful theory to Buck tomorrow; I have no interest in Buck's hurt feelings." Ezra stared down at him with intense eyes, then leaned over to rest his warm cheek against Chris's, speaking a sibilant whisper into his ear:

"Tell me you would've recognized me instantly, no matter how few or many of the others you'd already seen. Tell me you'd've recognized me before Vin ever appeared."

Ezra's stubble scraped against his as Ezra pressed his lips right to his ear.

"Swear it to me even if it isn't true."

Chris trembled at the low, smoky voice and damp breath, and lifted his hand to grip the back of Ezra's neck. He pulled Ezra up just far enough to see Ezra's gleaming eyes in the moonlight and so Ezra could see his, their faces an inch apart, their quick breath mingling.

"I'll always know you. No matter what happens, no matter who or what the fuck else I forget, I ain't never going to forget you. Before Vin or Buck or the whole bitching world, I'll always recognize you."

He held on to Ezra, waiting, feeling the press of Ezra's hand against his chest, the hard thump of his heart against Ezra's hand.

Ezra stayed taut against him for a long moment, then all his muscles relaxed at once, like water gushing from a primed pump. Ezra folded down onto him, head against his shoulder.

"Yes." Ezra sounded as exhausted as Chris felt, but no longer raw.

He loosened his hand, but kept it resting on the nape of Ezra's neck. After a minute in which his heart calmed and Ezra's breath evened out, he gathered himself enough to prod Ezra in the shoulder.

"Get up and take off that gun and those boots if you're staying. I'm going back to sleep."

Ezra pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and tugged off his boots, then stood to unbuckle his holster and hang it over the bedpost. He threw off his jacket, vest, cravat, sleeve garters, suspenders, shirt, pants, and socks lickety-split; for all his care and concern about his looks and clothing, Ezra could be, when he felt like it, the fastest damned undresser he'd ever known.

He shifted over in the bed to make room, half-asleep already, not even thinking about it, and Ezra slid in beside him; talking at last, a snide monologue of fancy words in his butter-slick accent. Chris rolled over into the warmth of Ezra's hard body and the familiarity of his soft voice like lying down in a tidal pool.

"Ain't any way I wouldn't ever know you, no matter what." He spoke drowsily as Ezra settled against him. "Hell, one whiff of that prissy pomade of yours is all it'd take, like bitching smelling salts waking a soul out of a dead faint."

The last thing he felt before falling into sleep was a smile creasing Ezra's cheek against his shoulder.

###### Epilogue

Vin returned alone after a week, and shook his head to their questions. No sign of a band of rogue Cheyenne, no rumors of a white woman living with any of the tribes in the area. The good news was the Army hadn't had any luck, either, and had given up the search for now, diverted north-west to handle some kind of trouble spot in Colorado.

"What are Quinton and Two Persons gonna do now?" JD was leaning against the boardwalk railing, the rest of them sprawled on chairs and benches outside the Saloon.

Vin shrugged, sitting spread-legged and relaxed next to Chris. "Keep looking. I don't reckon they'll give up searching any time soon. Slowly head back north, probably, where there's more chance of finding Cheyenne. They're running low on money, so Two Persons is doing some scouting and Quinton's doctoring folks along the way."

Nathan sighed. "Sure was nice having a real doctor around even just for a few hours."

Chris had heard Quinton Beaudine hadn't gotten much sleep his one night in town, as Nathan's store of medical questions tended to outnumber even JD's vast curiosity about anything under the sun that caught his fancy. From the amused smiles shared among the others, he reckoned the talk of Quinton's stunned look the following morning must've been true.

"Not quite a doctor," Ezra said, not looking up from the book he'd had his nose buried in the whole time they'd been out here.

Nathan sighed again. "Closer'n me."

After a few minutes' silence in which Buck managed to beat Chris at another game of checkers--he needed to keep Buck's sneaky tendencies better in mind--JD said, "I'm glad I don't have any family lost somewhere out there. It'd be real hard not knowing what happened to 'em or where to look for 'em."

Chris shivered as an icy chill ran along his spine. _Family_ : the one thing most worth fighting for; or dying to save, if a man was lucky enough to get that chance. He looked around the group of mismatched men who'd come for him when he wasn't even aware he needed them, and knew they probably always would, if they could. One or more, or maybe all of them.

His eyes slid to Ezra, who had abandoned his book at last and was staring straight at him with that set look that always reminded Chris of an attack dog. Their eyes locked. Then, for a barely seen moment before turning back to his book, Ezra's dimples and gold tooth flashed in a smile, his eyes crinkled with kindled heat, and his tongue flicked out to lick his lips.

Chris shivered again, but in anticipation, not dread this time, and settled into the contentment of a day spent in the sun with the odd group of people he most wanted around him.


End file.
